The flames have scorched the sky to dusk,
The black snow flakes fall with but a whisper,
The whistle of torn air with the beat of the drum,
The forever war goes on unknown.

My boot prints are gold in my toiling passage,
The wasteland of this once pure city stretches on,
Forever at the turning of the clock,
We march on down glory road.

At times I pass the echoes of those before,
And those of battles that are yet to be,
With the standards and marching flutes,
File after file of the dead salute.

Never stopping after the first fight was written,
The list of those lost stretches forever,
Is there enough ink in the world,
For all those that walk down glory road?